


i can do anything (better than you)

by haloud



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Bickering, M/M, Pre-Slash, innes being innes, silly posturing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 04:58:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11798889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud
Summary: Ephraim's not sure why Frelia's prince has already decided to hate him, but he's going to get to the bottom of it.





	i can do anything (better than you)

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the song "anything you can do" from annie get your gun. it's cheesy but that's how i roll

Grado is so much nicer this time of year.  But, then again, Grado is nicer _all_ the time; Frelia somehow manages to be cold and humid all at once, and Ephraim is getting sicker and sicker of waking up every morning to nothing but gray clouds.  He misses the temperate weather of Renais, and damn does he wish that, if he and Eirika _must_ go on these diplomatic tours, they could at least spend more time in the sunny south.

And the company…

Ephraim has no idea what he’s done to anger Prince Innes, but it must have been dire.

Oh, Frelia’s prince gets along perfectly well with Eirika, of course.  Innes is still a bit stuck-up, as that seems to be his natural state, but Ephraim’s sister has the entire Frelian court, royal family first among them, eating out of the palm of her hand within _hours,_ seemingly, of their arrival.  For probably the billionth time in their lives, Ephraim tamps down the desperate envy that grips him when he sees her at work charming diplomats and generals alike.  She doesn’t even know she does it.  The only thing Ephraim has ever been able to charm is a warhorse, and even that’s dubious.  As Ephraim drums his jittery fingers against the tabletop, it’s never been more obvious which of them is the better choice for future ruler of Renais.

Saint Latona, if only they were in Grado!  Lyon always makes everything so easy, with his little smiles and his fretting kindnesses, smoothing over any insult Ephraim could deliver with his clumsy manners before it even becomes an incident.  And besides, both twins get along with everyone there.  It’s a whole different world than the stuffy halls of Frelia.

“Hiya, Prince Ephraim,” a cheerful voice cuts in by his right elbow, and Ephraim starts badly enough to bang his knee on the table.  _General Duessel would understand, and even Father, though he’d reprimand me in private.  I’ve been cooped up too long.  I’d kill for a chance to really stretch my legs!_

But not even his distraction—which could, not unfairly, be mistaken for simple rudeness—is enough to dissuade Princess Tana.  She pulls up the seat to his left, props her chin on her hand, and stares intently at the side of Ephraim’s head.  Her legs cross and uncross restlessly.  Her bangles clank and chatter around her wrists and ankles.  No one has ever accused her of being subtle, Ephraim supposes, but in truth he begins to feel himself unclench at her presence.

_Dig deep for a little courtesy, dolt,_ he reprimands himself, straightening his back.

“Greetings, Princess Tana.  How are you enjoying the evening?”

 “It’s always a party when friends are in attendance.  But you’re over here looking all gloomy, so I thought I’d come over and try and liven the place up a bit!  What’s eating you, Ephraim?”

Would it be remiss to just tell her the truth?  Eirika has a high opinion of her already, and he’s always been told that honesty is the best policy when it comes to ladies.  But when the problem in question is her brother, maybe even insinuating that he’s got a problem would cause an international incident.

Maybe he should just faceplant in the pudding and get the humiliation over with already.

“Forgive my melancholy, Princess Tana.  I’m just…feeling a bit under the weather is all.”  He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, jiggling his foot.  How obvious is it that he’s lying?  It must be so obvious.

“Liar,” Tana says with another bright giggle, leaning in closer to his arm.  Ephraim fiddles with his soup spoon, and Tana covers his hand with hers.  “Is it my brother, then?”

He glances at her sharply.  “How did you know?”

“Well, you’re a guest here, and he’s been glaring daggers at you for days.  I can’t imagine it’s especially comfortable.”

“I just wish he’d tell me what I did so we could have it out for real.  I hate this waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I hate feeling like I’m going to cause relations between our countries to fall apart every time I round a corner and he sees me.”

Perhaps he gave too much away in his frustration.  After all, it isn’t like Princess Tana actually knows him; she’s spent most of their visit plastered to Eirika’s side.  But, then again, perhaps Ephraim is underestimating her, since despite that she’s been observant enough to pick out Ephraim’s sulking across a crowded banquet hall.  Throughout all the decorum classes he’s attended in his sixteen years, he still isn’t sure where to draw the emotional line between personal friend and political ally.

Perhaps Ephraim should just spend more time out in the yard with Sir Gilliam and Lady Syrene and get this ridiculous ennui out of his system.

“My brother is a curious creature at the best of times, and he’s seldom cheerful.  He’s probably just being grouchy because he likes you even though he didn’t want to at first; that’s what I always figure is going on when he gets snippy with _me._ Innes absolutely despises being proved wrong, even if he’s the one doing the proving.”  Tana pats his hand and then leans in conspiratorially.  “Listen, Ephraim, do you want to improve relations with the future king of Frelia?”

“I—uh, of course I do.”

“Alright, then here’s what you should do…”

\--

It’s yet another steely morning, but at least this time when Ephraim strolls out into the training yard he goes with a purpose. Same as every morning, soldiers drill in the lists, the castle smith fills the courtyard with the noise of work and battle, and rows of hard-eyed knights pack the Pegasus stables, softened as they bond with their beasts.  But this time he strides straight past them all until he reaches the archery lists, where Prince Innes spends three hours each morning firing shot after shot after impossible shot.  Ephraim has kept clear this whole time, more because he has no reason to practice archery than to avoid an argument, but this morning he borrows a bow from the quartermaster, draws the string, and fires an arrow straight past Innes and into the center of the far target.

To Innes’s credit, Ephraim thinks begrudgingly, he doesn’t even flinch.  Which is natural, of course; someone that pigheaded and stubborn would never show something even approaching weakness.  So Ephraim’s entrance is _definitely_ being marked into some kind of ledger as ridiculous, melodramatic overcompensation.  Off to a great start, then.

What Innes does do, however, is wheel around with cold fire in his eyes, barking, “You incompetent buffoon, you could have hit—oh.”  He narrows his eyes, and his lip curls into a sneer.  “I should have guessed.”

With a tone like that to respond to, it isn’t acting at all when Ephraim tosses his hair haughtily and says, “I came here to challenge you to a bit of a competition, Prince.”

Innes’s eyes track slowly up and down Ephraim’s body.  “An archery competition?  I knew you were barbaric, but I didn’t think you were a complete half-wit.  I’ll slaughter you, and you know it.”

“Can’t know until you try.  Also, can I be both complete and half at something at the same time?  Hm, I’ll have to consult someone smart.  Or maybe a philosopher…”

Ephraim can hear Innes’s teeth grind from ten feet away, and he smirks.  It feels good to rack up points, even if this whole show is meant, ultimately, to build some bridges between the two of them.

When Tana suggested it, Ephraim had balked.  In truth, it’s a small miracle that his first shot landed as solidly as it did; Ephraim’s history with archery leaves much to be desired, as he vastly prefers the ferocity of the melee.  But he has had a bit of training, enough to hit the targets, at least, and Tana had said, “The _point_ is for you to lose.  If Innes feels like he beat you in something, something tangible, he’ll probably back off.  It’s a place to start, at least!”

It isn’t even like having to swallow his pride, Ephraim justifies to himself as he runs his finger along the grip of his borrowed bow.  After all, he’ll really be the one getting one over on his opponent by making the first real move in the battle Innes began.

Of course, it’s impossible to gloat about a victory that subtle, no matter how much Ephraim tells himself it’s a victory all the same.  Latona, can he just be freed from politics forever?

“Fine,” Innes spits.  “We’ll have your ridiculous competition.  I hope you enjoy losing.”

And lose Ephraim does.  They agree to terms of best results out of a quiver full of twenty arrows.  Ephraim hardly embarrasses himself to the extent he’d feared; fifteen out of his twenty land in the bullseye or close enough, which would be decent enough to soundly best Kyle, Forde, or even General Seth. But the best Ephraim manages is “above average,” a result that a mediocre-at-best archer can nod his head at with grim satisfaction.

Innes, in contrast, _soars._

Ephraim plants his feet, draws back his shoulders, and fires all twenty arrows in quick succession before he can lose his stance.  Innes takes his time, savoring each shot in a way that’s nearly indecent, long fingers laid out on each arrow’s delicate shaft, back muscles flexing with lazy ease.  He takes precise aim, breathes, and releases.  And with a soft sound—the cutting of air, the matching exhale—each arrow flies true, forming a precise ring pattern around the edge of the bullseye.  The last three hit the exact center.  Ephraim, finished long before Innes, empties his own lungs in a rush as he drinks in the sight before him.

_You win,_ he should concede with a good-natured laugh and an offer to shake on it.  But sweat makes Innes’s hair curl slightly at his temples.  Innes props his bow against the rail.  He rolls his shoulders and inspects his nails, and Ephraim swallows down dry.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” Innes finally drawls, glancing at Ephraim with a sly, smug glint in his eye.

“Oh, yeah,” Ephraim replies, something unknown and curious unfolding within him.  “I think I’m definitely starting to see what Frelia has to offer.  I’ll have to thank Princess Tana.”

Ephraim wanders away from the lists before hearing any sort of response.  What would Innes look like, corded arms flexing and releasing in the thick of battle?  How would his stance and gaze change to account for the glare of the Grado sun, the ruffling breeze of the Renaitian plains?  The strange antagonism that Innes spent the last eight days pumping towards him at every available moment makes sense to Ephraim now; he can feel that heat, he can understand the prickle of Innes’s skin, and he wants to fight, he wants to…

He breathes in the mist, and he thinks, mostly, of unity.

**Author's Note:**

> silly, silly boys


End file.
